“You are trying to turn my head,” his beautiful companion whispered. “You flatter me.”
“It is not possible,” he answered.
Again the fan fluttered for a moment before her face. She sighed.
“Ah. Monsieur!” she continued, dropping her voice until it scarcely rose above a whisper, “there are not many men like you. You speak of my husband and his political gifts. Yet what, after all, do they amount to? What is his position, indeed, if one glanced behind the scenes, compared with yours?”
The face of the Baron de Grost became like a mask. It was as though suddenly he had felt the thrill of danger close at hand, danger even in that scented atmosphere wherein he sat.
“Alas, Madame!” he answered, “it is you, now, who are pleased to jest. Your husband is a great and powerful ambassador. I, unfortunately, have no career, no place in life save the place which the possession of a few millions gives to a successful financier.”
She laughed very softly, and again her eyes spoke to him. “Monsieur,” she murmured, “you and I together could make a great alliance, is it not so?”
“Madame,” he faltered, doubtfully, “if one dared hope—”
Once more the fire of her eyes, this time not only voluptuous. Was the man stupid, she wondered, or only cautious?
“If that alliance were once concluded,” she said, softly, “one might hope for everything.”